


Sci's Avengers Food Prompts

by scifigrl47



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Mostly avengers fluff, Unrelated chapters, promptfest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-10-21 04:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10677333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: A series of unrelated stories, each in relation to a particular prompt.  Not all the prompts are about food, but the prompters 'won' the story by giving me a delicious, trashy food for use in another story, so many of them are.Universe/relationships will be different in each chapter, please read chapter notes for synopsis and pairings, if any.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Avengers Potluck, for Tumblr user sassysnowperson
> 
> Prompt: Keeping with the food theme, the prompt is: Toasterverse potluck. Whatever you want to do with it, your OCs are definately welcome.
> 
> Universe: Toasterverse  
> Relationships: Light Phil/Clint and Steve/Tony, plus some OC pairings there as well.  
> Warnings: Lots of food. Lots of opinions about the sort of comfort fic that the Avengers and their friends would bring to a potluck. No explanation of why they're having a potluck.

“What'd you bring?”

Steve looked up from the banquet table. “Chicken and dumplings,” he said, and he was probably more proud about that than he should've been. He stepped out of Clint's way, taking a moment to wipe his hands on the plain white apron tied around his waist. 

Clint dropped a crock pot onto the table with a great deal of aplomb. “Nice. Your mom's recipe?”

“Near as I could remember,” Steve said, with a nod. “I looked up some variations, just to make sure I was remembering right.” 

“The internet is a dangerous place, when it comes to recipes,” Phil said. He had a two large, covered bowls in his hands, one stacked on top of the other, and a bag of tortilla chips tucked under his arm.

“The internet is a dangerous place, period,” Steve said. He leaned back against the table, his arms crossed over his chest. Clint lifted the lid to the crock pot to give the contents a stir, releasing a swirl of spicy, fragrant steam. “Chili?” Steve asked.

Clint grinned, his eyes alight. “Hot enough to melt your fillings,” he said, full of glee.

“Sounds... Great?” Steve said.

“If you value your stomach lining, I've brought cheese dip and chips,” Phil said. “And mashed potatoes.” He paused. “Just use the chili as a topping.” He gave Steve a tight smile. “Sparingly.”

“You Yankees are a bunch of wusses,” Clint declared. “Nat'll eat it.”

“She really shouldn't, but you're right, she will,” Phil said, his expression affectionate. “No one else will, though.”

“No one else will what?” Bruce asked, stepping off the elevator. He had a small crock pot braced on one hip and a giant rice cooker hanging from his other hand. He shuffled over to them, doing his best not to step on either of the cords.

“Eat Clint's food,” Phil said. 

Bruce gave Clint's crock pot a frankly worried look, but he said, “I'll have-”

“There's half a dozen ghost peppers in that thing,” Phil said, and Bruce stopped.

“Right. No. I won't be doing that,” he admitted.

“Philistines,” Clint said, taking the crock pot from Bruce. He set it up, taking the opportunity to peek into the depths. “What'd you make? Looks like sloppy joes.”

“Uh, no, close, but no.” Bruce plugged in the oversized rice cooker and set it to warm. “Minced pork. With rice. I learned how to make it in Taiwan.”

Phil grabbed Clint's hand before he could put his fingers into the steaming mixture. “At least find a spoon,” he said.

“No, I was raised by wolves,” Clint said, cheerful about it. “Hungry wolves. Who like pork.”

“Please take a spoon,” Bruce said.

“Please wait for everyone else,” Steve told him, and Clint let out a long, pained groan.

“But I'm hungry now,” he pointed out.

“And you'll still be hungry in fifteen minutes,” Steve said, trying to bite back a grin. “What're you, six years old?”

Clint threw his hands in the air. “If I was, could I eat?”

“No, but I'd feel worse about telling you no,” Steve said. “Go get the punch bowl.”

“All right,” Clint said, immediately distracted. “Punch time!” He wandered off towards the bar. Bruce watched him go.

“You realize he's going to spike the punch, right?” he asked Steve.

“He's going to TRY,” Steve said.

“And Stark's going to be the one who succeeds,” Phil said, his lips twitching into a slight smile. “What is he bringing?”

“Something homemade,” Steve said, crossing his arms over his chest. Phil and Bruce exchanged a look. Steve frowned at them. “Don't start.”

“So, pizza?” Bruce asked Phil.

“Not fancy enough,” Phil said. “Sushi platters.”

“Something homemade,” Steve said, with utter conviction.

“Cheese plate,” Bruce mused. “With an assortment of overpriced crackers.”

“Platter of lasagna from that new place down on 12th,” Phil said. “Or pad thai from the old place on 14th.”

“Oh, I hope it's a sandwich platter from Katz's.”

“You're both horrible,” Steve told them. 

“Glad you're finally coming to terms with that fact,” Natasha said. Her arms were cradling a massive dutch oven, and her hair was pulled back in a kerchief, the coppery strands curling up at the ends. Her cheeks were pink as she maneuvered the pot into place. “Your life will be much easier now.”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” Steve said, grabbing a trivet for her. She settled her pot down on the table. 

“What drove you over the edge?” she asked, tucking the potholders down next to the pot.

“They think Tony's going to bring something he bought,” Steve said.

Natasha blinked at him, slow and careful. Her brows drew up, just a bit. “Of course he is,” she said, and Bruce choked on a laugh.

“He will not,” Steve said.

“What're you betting on?” Phil asked.

“Caviar platter,” she said. She leaned a hand on the table, bracing the other on her hip. “Maybe pastries. Did anyone agree to make dessert?”

“Thor did,” Clint said, wandering back over with both arms wrapped around the crystal punch bowl. “What'd you make?”

“Pelmani,” Natasha said, taking the ladle out of the bowl. “Are we making punch?”

“I like punch,” Steve said.

“Punch it is,” she said, smiling. “Juice and seltzer?”

“Sprite,” Phil said. “Frozen lemonade.”

“Do we have either of those things?” Bruce asked. He eyed the punch bowl. “That's, that's a lot of punch.”

“Club soda,” Clint said. “And fresh fruit.”

“Work it out, people,” Steve said, amused despite himself. “Thor and-”

“I am here!” Thor thundered from the entryway. He strode in, a huge silver domed tray held easily between his hands, and a frilly pink apron tied around his neck. He made it look regal somehow. Darcy was right behind him, her dark curls covered by a chef's toque, and a lacy French maid style apron doing nothing to protect her dress. She had a cast iron skillet in each hand. Jane brought up the lead, a casserole dish in her oven-mitt covered hands.

Thor set his platter down and took the skillets from Darcy. “Thanks, big an' blonde,” she said, shaking out her hands. “Those got heavier with each floor.”

“All right, corn bread,” Clint said, his eyes huge. “I'll get a knife.”

“Punch,” Nat reminded him.

“Oh, god, punch, can I help make punch?” Darcy said, her whole face lighting up. “I am the bomb at punch.”

“Let's do it,” Natasha said, striding towards the bar. “Bruce? You in?”

“This will go badly,” he said, wandering after them. But he didn't seem that concerned.

Steve took the casserole dish from Jane. “Oh, be careful, it's still hot-” she started.

“It's fine,” he said, settling it on the table. He wasn't sure what it was, and he wasn't sure how to ask.

Clint peered around his shoulder. “Oh, damn, is that green bean casserole?”

Jane's face was flushed. “Uh, yes, I'm not much of a cook, but this usually turns out all right, and Thor really likes it.”

Thor pressed a kiss to her hair. “It is a most delightful dish,” he said, leaning his chin against the top of her head, one brawny arm wrapped around her waist. “Why you do not make it more often, I shall never know.”

“It's a special event kinda thing, dude,” Clint said, sneaking a bit of the crisp brown topping. “Gets boring if you make it too much.”

“Also, most human beings would die if they ate it regularly,” Jane said. “It's not... It's not good for you.”

“Also that,” Clint agreed. He reached for Thor's lid. “What'd you-”

Thor moved it out of reach. “Not until we are all here,” he said. He glanced at Steve. “How may I help?”

“We could use you to move about fifty pounds of ice!” Darcy yelled from the bar. “And a hundred pounds of liquids in various bottles!”

“This, I can do,” Thor said, with a firm nod. He pointed at Clint. “Do not touch that which is not yours by rights, or you shall be forced to face the consequences of your actions.”

Clint watched him go. “Worth it,” he declared, reaching for the domed lid, and Steve wrapped an arm around his shoulders, force marching him away from the table. “Hey!”

“Go get the plates,” Steve said.

“This is totally unfair,” Clint said, even as he went. “I want to make that clear. Everything is unfair!”

“I'll get the silverware,” Jane said. She took a step, then stopped. “It's, should I just follow him?”

“Unfortunately,” Phil said, with a smile. “I'll come with you; we'll need water glasses.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. As they walked away, he glanced up. “Jarvis, we have an ETA on the rest of our potluck guests?”

“Miss Potts and Col. Rhodes are on their way up on the elevator now,” Jarvis said. “Along with Ms. Lewis' friends.”

“Great.” He took a breath. “Patch me through to the workshop, please?”

“Of course.” Steve was pretty sure he heard a trace of smugness in Jarvis' voice. 

“Hi, Tony-” 

That was as far as he got before Tony cut him off. “I'm coming.”

Steve paused. “Okay,” he said at last. There was no response. He waited another second, then two, then tried again. “Is there a timeline for this?”

“Can't rush perfection,” Tony said. “Be there. Sometime. Probably soon. Right. Thanks, Cap, bye-bye now.”

“Tony-” Steve stopped, and took a deep breath. “He hung up on me, didn't he?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Jarvis said.

“Wonderful,” Steve said, as Thor reappeared at his side, massive bags of ice piled high on his shoulder. He ripped one open and dumped it into the punch bowl. Steve reached out to steady it before it ended up tipping off the table. “Do we have enough-”

“Punch punch punch!” Darcy said, cracking open a bottle of cranberry juice cocktail with a twist of her wrist and dumping the contents into the punch bowl. Natasha, right behind her, had half a dozen plastic bottles of various sizes cradled in her arms, and Bruce had a cutting board and a sack of oranges. 

Steve decided he was better off not asking. “I'll just... Leave you to that.”

“Probably for the best,” Bruce said, his lips twitching. “Do we have a sharp-” Natasha held up a knife in front of him, so close that his eyes crossed as he tried to focus on it. “That- That'll work.” He took it from her with careful fingers as Darcy dumped two bottles of carbonated sugar water into the punch at the same time.

Clint dumped a stack of plates on the table. “Who're we waiting for?” he asked, just as the elevator doors opened. He glanced over as Pepper and Rhodey stepped off. Behind them, Shawn, Drew and Harris didn't budge. Steve gave them a reassuring smile. It didn't seem to help. 

“Hey! Rhodes!” Clint waved a plate at him. “What do you think Tony's bringing?”

“An appetite and a fork,” Rhodey said, shifting the large insulated bag to his other shoulder.

“Hey, now,” Steve said, holding a hand out to Rhodey. Rhodey shook it with a grin.

“He's not wrong,” Bruce said, focusing very hard on slicing thin rounds from the orange. He dropped one delicately into the punch. Darcy drowned it in a half gallon of Sprite.

“A cake,” Pepper said. “He'll bring a cake. Possibly multiple cakes. Because I'm on a diet.” She held up a large bowl. “So I brought salad.”

“Thank god,” Phil said, taking it from her. “I'll make some Italian dressing?”

“Oil and vinegar for me, please,” she said, following him to the bar. “Rhodey brought macaroni and cheese. I gained three pounds just breathing the air in the elevator.”

“It's that good,” Rhodey said with a broad grin. He held up the bag. “Where should I put this?”

“There is space here,” Thor said, waving him over.

“You guys planning on getting off the elevator?” Darcy asked the others, waving a club soda bottle at them.

“No,” Harris said, staring straight ahead.

“Yeah, he's doing the thing again,” Drew said, grabbing Harris by the arm and wrestling him off the elevator. “Let's go, we're not wasting this kielbasa on the lobby guards.”

“Oooo, kielbasa,” Clint said, immediately distracted. “Barbeque sauce?”

“Nah, I boil it in Coca-Cola,” Drew said. He gave Clint a wide, wicked grin. “It's candied sausage, Agent.”

“I love you,” Clint told him.

“Not in front of your boyfriend.” Drew handed him the pot. “Or mine, for that matter.”

“I'm used to it,” Shawn said. He held up a disposable aluminum serving tray. “I made placki ziemniaczane.” Everyone looked at him. “And a few nice chutneys for dipping.” He gave them all a bright grin. Darcy looked at Drew.

“Help?” she said, tossing an empty bottle over her shoulder.

“Potato pancakes,” he said with a grin. “I mean, they're good with sour cream. They're phenomenal with chutney.” 

“Fantastic,” Darcy said, leaning a hand on the table. “Harris, do you have a little insulated casserole bag there? To hold your casserole dish?”

“Yes,” he said, setting it on the table. “And the bag is holding oven baked enchiladas. So don't even-”

“That's adorable,” Darcy said, as Natasha tossed a fistful of frozen strawberries into the punch. “You're adorable. An adorable little dork.”

“Hey, I've got one, too,” Rhodey said with an easy grin.

“But you make it work.” Darcy stirred the punch. “Do you go to a lot of potlucks?”

“You have absolutely no idea how many potlucks the Air Force has,” Rhodey said, his voice utterly dire. “I could make my cheese ends mac n' cheese in my sleep at this point.”

“I am not going anywhere near that thing. I can't even look at it,” Pepper said. “Please tell me Tony brought something healthy.”

“No one knows,” Steve told her. Pepper slumped next to him with a faint groan. “Sorry. We're... Not healthy today.”

“Or any day,” Phil said. He sounded resigned.

“Betting pool on Tony's contribution is still open,” Clint said. There was four rounds of kielbasa on his fork, and judging by his chipmunk cheeks, another three or four in his mouth. Steve gave him a look. Clint just shrugged, so far past shame that it didn't even seem worth discussing.

“Oh, are we taking odds on what Rice-a-Tony is bringing?” Darcy asked. “Did someone-”

“Everyone's guessed pizza,” Clint said, and Darcy made a face at him.

“Fine, Chinese dim sum.” She looked at Harris. “What're you guessing?”

“I'm not guessing,” he said, and Darcy pouted at him. “Stop that.” She pouted harder, her eyes opened painfully wide. Harris sighed. “Fine. Bucket of fried chicken.”

Darcy considered that as she reached for a punch cup. “That's not very classy,” she told him.

“No, but neither is he,” Rhodey said, his lips twitching. Pepper tried to elbow him in the side, and he dodged. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

“I'm sure he'll-” She stopped, her mouth working. “It'll be very nice takeout. I'm sure it'll be very nice takeout.”

“He was told homemade,” Steve told her.

“Yeah, but did you specify who's house it had to be made in?” Drew asked. “'Cause, honestly, I know like three places where I can order out of people's kitchens.”

“Every mother in the neighborhood wants to feed him,” Shawn said. 

“I'm sleek and adorable, also kinda skinny, some mothers take that as a challenge,” Drew said with a grin. “I say it'll be burritos.”

“Sandwich platter,” Shawn said. He looked at Jane, who was thinking, her eyes narrowed. “Any guesses, Dr. Foster?”

“Taco dip,” she said. “Or that horrible stuff that's just Velveeta and Ro-Tel tomatoes?” Clint choked on a laugh, and Jane glanced at him. “What?”

“I made that,” Phil said, without a trace of shame.

Jane stared at him, her mouth hanging open. “No way.”

“It's trashy and delicious,” he said. Behind his back, Clint mouthed “Just like me.” Everyone ignored him.

“Damn right it is,” Drew said. He made grabbing gestures with both hands. “Gimmie gimmie gimmie.”

“Thank you,” Steve said to Jane, as Clint lead Drew over to the bag of tortilla chips. She glanced at him, confusion obvious in his expression, and Steve smiled at her. “For having faith that he'll actually make his dish.”

She nodded, then stopped with a wry smile. “I figured that he'd forgotten,” she admitted. “And won't have enough time to order out.”

Steve bit back a laugh. “Okay, that's, that's possible.” He shook his head. “Jarvis, any chance-”

“I'm here! I'm here, Jesus, you people have no patience!” Tony stomped out of the elevator. There was a large, metallic cylinder held carefully in front of him. He was wearing a pair of the Iron Man gauntlets, and steam swirled around him with every step, curls of pale mist that swept over his chest and shoulders. “Clear a path, no one touch anything!”

Steve stepped back, and as Tony swept past, he felt the temperature drop. “What-”

“I used dry ice!” Tony crowed. He dropped the metal cylinder onto the table with a muted clang, and yanked his hands back. “Well, I started with dry ice,” he admitted. “But it wasn't working, so I moved on.”

Steve stared at him. “To?”

“Liquid nitrogen.” Tony took a step to the side, and made a wide, expansive gesture towards the thing that was now cheerfully steaming away on the table. “Ta-da!”

There was a long moment of silence. “What is it?” Clint asked at last. “Is it poison?”

Tony dropped his hands back to his sides. “It's not- Of course it's not poison! What is wrong with you, Barton? Jesus Christ, you are a suspicious little-”

Rhodey leaned in, squinting at the container. “Did you make science experiment ice cream?” he asked, cutting Tony off before he could really get going.

Tony turned to him, a broad grin splitting his face. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

Rhodey scraped a hand over his face. “Oh, god, it might be poison.”

“It's not-” Tony gaped at him. “It is not poison! It's perfectly good ice cream!”

“It's something frats do, Tony. This is a frat party trick.”

Tony nodded. “And it's delicious.” He paused. “I think. We'll find out when I can open it.”

Steve let out a breath that was absolutely not a sigh. “Right,” he said. He waved a hand at the table. “Well. Dig in.” Everyone moved, heading for the plates, and Steve snagged Tony by the elbow before he could slip out of reach. He leaned in. “Is it poison.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “It's not-” Steve stared at him, and Tony groaned. “It's not poison!” He paused. “I think. Barton can try it first.”

“I'll try it first,” Steve said. But he gave Tony a grin. “Thanks. For trying. Also. Not poisoning us.”

“I ordered pizza, in case it failed,” Tony said.

“Of course you did.” Shaking his head, Steve headed up the table. “Hey, Thor? What'd you make?”

Thor whisked the domed lid off of the platter. “Behold,” he said, and the air crackled with the force of it. “The food of the Gods.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone stared at the milky green... Thing. “Is that...” Steve leaned in. “Is that gelatin?” 

“Ambrosia,” Thor said, with a firm nod. “Darcy gave me the recipe.

“You are a very bad woman,” Harris said to Darcy, who just grinned, and handed him a serving spoon. 

“Dig in.”


	2. Our Daily Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For shinyhappymurdersongs, who wanted a Clint centric team fic.
> 
> Canon to the botverse, where the robot arm Dummy is occasionally a very opinionated little boy.
> 
> Warnings for discussion of childhood hunger, a lot of adults yelling in the general vicinity of a child, and Tony calling people crazy because he's not really a bastion of mental stability himself, so he should know better.

Clint gave the pot a suspicious glance. "This is either going to be fantastic or it's going to be inedible," he said, poking at the contents with a long handled spoon. "There's no middle ground here. We're going to feast, or we're going down with the ship. Going down hungry."

On the other side of the stove, safely away from any working burner, DJ nodded. “Feast!” he pronounced.

“Someone's optimistic,” Clint said. DJ gave him a grin and a nod. “Well, it's teasy for you to say.” Clint reached for the salt. “If this op goes South on us, you can just go charge. What'll the rest of us do?”

DJ thought about that, his eyes narrowed. "Pizza," he said at last.

Clint grinned. "Really, Mini-Stark? We're going right to takeout? And here I thought you had faith in me." He took a cautious taste from the spoon. “More pepper, maybe.”

DJ leaned forward on his stool, his hands clutching the sides of the seat. "Faith in pizza," he said.

"Pizza is a worthwhile thing to build your religious beliefs around, it's true, but I think we can hold off on total conversion, okay?" Clint tossed the spoon in the pot, and reached for DJ. He scooped DJ up, swinging him in the air before setting his bare feet on the floor. "But tell you what, if you set the table, I'll keep your pizza suggestion as an emergency backup."

DJ nodded, his face very serious. "Re. Dun. Dan. See," he said.

"Right, all good engineers need at least a few redundancies," Clint agreed with a grin. "Wanna use the square plates today? I think it'll give our potential disaster here a touch of class. We can convince them it's cuisine."

DJ blinked, slow and careful, his head tipped to the side. "Difference?"

"The difference between cooking and cuisine is totally price. Your dad will explain." Clint pointed. "Square plates."

DJ gave a firm nod, and bounced across the kitchen floor, his fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt. Clint watched him go, a fond smile twitching the corners of his mouth. Shaking his head, he looked back at the pot. “Is Steve coming to dinner tonight?”

“Yes!” DJ called from halfway inside the cabinet. 

“Good. He'll eat anything,” Clint said. He reached up into the cabinet, digging through the spices. It might not help, but at this point, he was pretty sure it couldn't hurt.

For a few minutes, he concentrated on covering his sins with a handful of oregano and sage, humming as he stirred the pot. The tarragon was probably a mistake, mostly because he didn't really remember what tarragon tasted like, but he had a lot of that, so he tossed it in anyway. There was a soft thump from behind him, and Clint held out his free hand. "You done?"

DJ's fingers wrapped around his, and he leaned against Clint's side. "Yes," he said.

"Okay." Clint glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "You did a good job."

DJ grinned at him. "Hop!" 

Clint grinned back. "Yeah, you hopped so I knew you were there, thank you for that, because the kitchen is super dangerous, right?"

DJ peered over the top of the stove, and Clint caught the back of his shirt, tugging him away. "Knives."

"And things that can burn you," Clint said. "And things that can fall on you."

DJ gave him a look. "Workshop."

"Yeah, the workshop's worse, but I am not dealing with you in the workshop. That is so far beyond my pay grade." Clint ruffled his hair, and DJ leaned against his side, his eyes drifting shut. "But I meant, thank you for setting the table."

"Thank you for dinner," DJ said, pushing his head against Clint's hand.

"Don't thank me until you eat it," Clint said, but DJ's fingers were tangled in the front of his shirt now, pressing against his stomach. Clint smoothed his hair back, and DJ looked up at him. "You hungry?"

DJ nodded, and Clint smiled at him as he set his spoon aside, and wiped his hands on his apron. "Okay, go sit down, and we'll have a piece of bread."

"Foot?" DJ asked, his face lighting up.

"Heel," Clint corrected. "The end is the heel, buddy, not the-" He shook his head. “Close.”

"Foot," DJ repeated. When Clint looked down at him, he held up his foot, pointing at it. "Heel. Same.”

"Heel is a part of the foot, and yeah, you know what? Close enough." Clint grinned at him. “You're a weird little kid, you know that?”

DJ threw his hands in the air. “Yes!” he crowed, and Clint caught him around the waist, laughing as he tossed DJ into the air.

“Jesus, can you at least not do that by the stove?” Tony asked from the kitchen doorway. 

“We live dangerously,” Clint said, but he took another few steps away from the stove before he swung DJ up onto his shoulder. “Dad's a grump, Deej.”

DJ laughed, one hand tangled in Clint's hair. “Grump,” he agreed.

“Yes, wonderful, that's fantastic,” Tony said. He tucked his hands in his pockets, his chin tipped up, his eyes narrowed on DJ. But there was a smile hovering around his mouth, and his eyes were dancing. “What is this? I've been gone for one day and you've crossed over to the dark side?”

“Wait, how am I the dark side?” Clint asked, his head tipping to the side as DJ yanked on his hair. “If anything, you're Darth Dad, I'm, I don't know, I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi over here.”

“Jedi,” DJ agreed.

“Stop showing him Star Wars,” Tony said.

“I have not shown him Star Wars,” Clint said, heading for the table. 

“Star War,” DJ said, because yeah, someone had been showing him that. Absolutely not Clint. Not since last time.

“Blame Steve. We all know he's the rebel lover in this group.” He swung DJ down to the ground and pointed at DJ's seat. “Sit.” DJ scrambled into his seat, and Clint held up a hand for high five. “Good boy.”

DJ tucked his feet under him, his bright eyes darting to his father. “Hi,” he said.

Tony leaned over, pressing a kiss to DJ's forehead. “Hello, brat. I missed you. Did you have a good day?” His hand smoothed the hair away from DJ's face, his fingers gentle. DJ nodded. “Did you get your work done?”

“No,” DJ said with a proud grin. Clint choked on a laugh, and when Tony turned to give him a look, Clint busied himself with cutting a slice of Italian bread. 

“Then why are we feeding you?” Tony asked, and Clint scowled down at the bread. He reached for the butter, slathering it on with a heavy hand. It helped.

DJ leaned his chin on the edge of the table. “Cute.”

“That'll only get you so far,” Tony told him.

“Gets him far enough,” Clint said. He set the bread on DJ's plate. “Eat that.” Then, to Tony, “When's Steve getting home?”

Tony ignored him, frowning down at the bread. “We're eating in, what, five minutes?”

“Depends on when Steve's getting here,” Clint said. He headed back to the stove. “So?”

“He'll be here any minute, which is why I'm asking why you're spoiling his dinner,” Tony said.

Clint's teeth clamped down on something he didn't know how to say. He took a breath, and another, inhaling the spicy sweet steam curling up from the pot. “It's a piece of bread, Tony,” he said instead. “Nat and Phil'll be back later tonight, and Thor's out of town. You know if Bruce is coming up?”

“He's got an experiment, should be up later, and can we discuss this?” Tony asked, gesturing at DJ. DJ's eyes darted between Tony and Clint, his hands resting on either side of his plate.

“Discuss what? Bread?” Clint asked, shaking his head. “Deej, eat it, we don't know when Steve's getting here.”

“He's going to be here, like, now,” Tony said. “Right. Discussion over. Dad's putting his foot down now. Stop feeding him between meals, Clint.”

Clint's fingers were white knuckled on the handle of the spoon, and he made a deliberate effort to relax his hand. “Know what?” He smirked at Tony. “No.” He tossed the spoon aside. DJ was still staring at him, his eyes huge. Clint forced a smile onto his face. “Deej. It's okay. Your dad's just being a jackass.”

“Right, but I'm still your dad, so-” Tony reached for the plate, and Clint slammed the lid onto the pot with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Know what?” he said, in the silence that followed. “You want to show up at the last minute and decide you're in charge?” He grabbed his apron strings, yanking them free. It was an overreaction, he knew it even as he yanked the apron off and tossed it towards the sink. “Fine. Control freak that you are, I'm surprised-”

The plate dropped back to the table. “Control freak?” Tony managed. “Really? Control freak? You really think-”

“That's enough.”

Clint rocked backwards, his heart pounding in his ears. He was breathing hard, and he didn't know why. Didn't know why his hands were shaking as he braced them on his hips. He didn't look up as Steve crossed the kitchen, stepping between them. 

Steve's head swiveled from one to the other. “Wanna tell me what this is about?” he asked, calm and stern, and Clint wanted to tell him to fuck off.

But behind Tony, DJ had retrieved his bread, and as Clint watched, he took a big bite. He smiled, and some of the tension went out of Clint's shoulders.

He gave Steve a tight smile. “Dinner's almost ready. I'm not hungry any more. Stroganoff's in the pot, pasta's in the strainer.” He kissed his fingertips. “Bon appetit. I'm getting a pizza.” Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the kitchen.

He very deliberately did not look back.

*

Steve watched Clint go, more perplexed than anything else. “All right then,” he said at last. “Tony?”

“You know as much as I do about the raving lunatic,” Tony said, his voice cutting. He scraped a hand over his face. “I need a drink.”

“Right, but we're-” Steve started, but Tony was already through the door of the kitchen and gone. Steve heaved a sigh. “That went well.” He glanced over at the kitchen table, where DJ was sitting quietly, working his way through a piece of bread and butter with methodical precision. Steve gave him a smile. “Hey, buddy,” he said, and DJ gave him a wide smile. “A lot of raised voices just now. How're we feeling?”

DJ thought about that, sucking butter from his index finger. “Mad at each other,” he said at last. “Not me. Loud. But not...” He scrunched his nose up. “Not scary.”

Steve smiled at him. “Right, they're mad at each other, not you. But they're still kinda scary. Are you all right?” DJ nodded. “I'm glad. You can tell me if you aren't, right?” Another nod, but DJ seemed more interested in his bread than the conversation. 

Steve reached for DJ's cup, just to have something to do. He took a deep, calming breath as he crossed to the sink. “Jarvis, I don't suppose you could give me an idea of what just happened here?”

“Sir seems frustrated by the fact that Clint has taken to giving DJ snacks before and between meals,” Jarvis said without missing a beat. 

“Huh.” Steve filled DJ's cup and turned the water off. “That happening often?”

There was a beat of silence. “If DJ is hungry, Clint is the first he will approach. So if anyone is slipping him something outside of mealtimes, it is likely to be him. It has taken some time for Sir to comprehend this, but it seems to have become a sore spot.”

“And today?” Steve asked, crossing back to the table.

“While waiting for you, Clint gave DJ a piece of bread. As dinner is being served very soon, it appears Sir found this to be unnecessary, and perhaps counterproductive.”

“Right. So they just had a screaming match about a slice of bread,” Steve said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Occasionally, he wondered how he'd ended up being the rational one. Somewhere, Bucky was laughing his ass off. “A piece of bread.”

“Important.”

Steve looked down at DJ. “Important? What's important?”

DJ turned the bread between his hands, considering the crust from every angle before taking a bite. He chewed with a great deal of care, then said, “This.”

Steve bit back a smile. “How is it important?” he asked.

DJ took another bite, chewed, then swallowed. "Don't know,” he said at last.

He couldn't quite hold back a chuckle. "Oh, it's important, but you don't know why. That's convenient." 

"Don't know," DJ repeated. "But it is." He set the bread down, staring at it. "Mostly, when dad says no, it's no." He stopped, his face scrunched up as he struggled to find the right words. "But this. Dad says no. And he-" He looked at Steve, frustration visible on his face.

Steve sank down into the chair next to him, reaching out to smooth DJ's hair away from his face. DJ leaned into his palm, his face relaxing. "Dad says no, and he did it anyway," Steve said, and DJ nodded. Steve leaned back, turning that over in his head. "He does it anyway." 

DJ nodded, and took another bite. "Important," he said, his mouth full. "Don't know why." He swallowed. "But... It is.” He looked up at Steve, his eyes big and dark. “Isn't it?"

Steve looked at the bread in his hand, and at the pot on the stove. “Yes,” he said at last. “I think it is.”

DJ pulled a piece of the crust away from the bread, and held it out to Steve. “Fix it?”

Steve took it. “I'll try,” he said, and it wasn't much, but apparently, it was enough, because DJ grinned at him, and went back to eating. “But for now, let's see what Clint made us for dinner, okay?”

“Disaster,” DJ said, around a mouthful of bread.

“Starting to feel that way, yes. But let's keep it from burning, anyway.” As he headed to the stove, Steve popped the piece of crust into his mouth.

DJ was right. It was important.

*

“Good evening.”

“Oh, God, what did I do?” Tony asked, which was probably not the right response, but sometimes his mouth got ahead of him. Quite often, if he was being honest with himself.

Phil paused just inside the door to the workshop. “A lot of things that I don't know about and a lot more that I'm ignoring,” he said, his voice tart. He was holding two coffee cups, and he held them up. “But right now, I'm just bringing you some hot cocoa.”

“I'm innately suspicious of this gesture, but I'm also thirsty, so I'm going to overlook my very real misgivings,” Tony said. He set the chestplate of the armor aside, smoothing the wiring out with an idle flick of his fingers.

“I'm honored,” Phil said, deadpan as always. But he also held the cup out over the workbench, and Tony reached for it. The china was warm, and he wrapped his hands around it, savoring the heat. 

Phil took a seat on the other side of the workbench, setting his own cup down in an empty spot between some discarded armor plating. "Did I ever tell you about my Nana Coulson?"

Tony stopped, the cup halfway to his lips. "No," he said, because Phil seemed to be waiting for some sort of response. "In that... I can't imagine why you would."

Phil arched an eyebrow, which was as close as he ever got to rising to the bait. "When I was a kid, she didn't live in the best neighborhood." He took a sip from his cup, letting it rest easily between his palms. "I got the feeling that it used to be nicer, and she stayed when a lot of other people didn't."

He reached for a tablet that Tony had left within reach on the bench. "Mom wanted her to move, but she refused. Said that was her home, and it was nothing wrong with it."

Tony took the tablet out of his hand. "Charming story, still don't know why we're doing this, but charming, really, can I do something else for you because-"

"When my sisters and I were visiting, we'd play with the local kids, and Nana would feed us all," Phil said, and Tony subsided, resigned to this. He set the tablet down, far from Phil's grabby fingers, and reached for a circuit board that he might be able to salvage. 

"There were a few kids, who always went home with a few sandwiches in a brown paper bag, or a wax paper wrapped chunk of tuna noodle cassarole or sliced ham or chicken." He smiled, just a little. "She ignored the way the apples would disappear off her tree, as long as the theif ate the whole thing, and didn't leave the core to attract ants."

Tony glanced at him, out of the corner of his eye, but didn't stop working on the circuit board. "Fascinating."

Phil ignored that. "I asked her why once. And she said, you can tell the ones who know what it's like to be hungry."

Tony stilled, his fingers frozen over the surface of the board. "What is-"

"She said, you can tell, because they ate carefully," Phil continued, as if Tony hadn't spoken. "Kids who have food at home, kids who take food for granted? They leave the crusts of their sandwiches. They leave the apple slices. They're picky about the things they don't like. They're greedy about the things that they do.

"But the ones who have been hungry? The ones who don't know where their next meal is coming from? They eat everything. And they eat carefully." Phil's head tipped to the side, his expression considering. "They're never the first one to go for seconds. They never take the last piece. They don't try to get more than their share of the stuff kids like, the cookies or the chips."

He looked up, meeting Tony's eyes. There was a faint, half-smile hovering around his mouth. "They eat carefully, because they know, very well, that the person feeding them has no obligation to keep feeding them."

Tony leaned back on his stool. "Okay, I don't know what this is about, but-"

"It's about my grand mother," Phil said, his face, his voice as smooth as glass. "I thought you should know."

"Know what?" Tony snapped.

Phil stood, collecting his cup. "How going hungry as a child creates fundamental patterns of behavior that are difficult, if not impossible, to alter," he said. His smile deepened, just a bit, but it didn't reach his eyes. “It doesn't matter how much time passes. On some level, the person will always have a very difficult relationship with food.” He reached across the bench and took Tony's cup out of his hand. “And the people who do, and do not, provide it.”

He shifted both cups to one hand. “Remember you have a mandatory mission review tomorrow,” he said. “Ten am.”

“Yeah, I won't be doing that,” Tony said, because he had to say something, and that seemed safe. His stomach was churning. “Phil-”

“Good night, Tony,” Phil said, and he slipped out the workshop door. The door shut behind him with a soft, and very final sounding click.

Tony tapped a finger against the surface of the tablet, scrolling rapidly through pages and files without really seeing any of them. The faint click of the door opening brought his head up.

Steve paused in the doorway, one hand braced on the door. There was a covered bowl in his other hand. “Did you eat?” he asked. He held up the bowl. “The stroganoff was pretty good.”

Tony braced one elbow on the workbench, his chin balanced on his hand. “Not really hungry,” he said, because he was, but something in him was suddenly reluctant to call it that. Hunger. He shook his head. “Is DJ-”

“Nat agreed to toss him in the direction of his bath,” Steve said, coming up beside him. He placed the bowl at Tony's elbow, pulling a fork out of his pocket. “She says we owe her our souls.”

Tony ignored the bowl. “Pretty sure those are long since mortgaged to her.” He picked up a piece of plating, turning it over in his hands. “Bruce eat?”

“He came up,” Steve said. “Clint's down in the gym, but I checked with Phil. He skipped the pizza and got leftovers.”

“Right. Phil.” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you two tag-teaming me?” he asked. “Really? Are we really doing this?”

Steve settled down on the stool next to him, folding his arms on the edge of the workbench. “Maybe,” he allowed. His head tipped in Tony's direction. “You should be used to it.”

“I'm resigned to it,” Tony said. He let his hand fall to the bench. “I'd like to be right, Steve. Just once. I'm not a greedy man.” Steve's lips twitched, and Tony stabbed a finger in his direction. “Shut up.”

“Didn't say a word,” Steve said, but there was something warm and affectionate in his voice. 

“I'm not a greedy man,” Tony repeated, just to get his point across. “I am not. But occasionally, I would like to be right, and I would like to have that be actually acknowledged.”

“You're right,” Steve said immediately, and some of the tension went out of Tony's shoulders. Steve leaned forward, catching his eye. “DJ needs structure. All kids need it, I guess, but DJ especially needs to know what's happening and when it's happening. It makes his life easier, it makes him more confident and more comfortable. Keeping him on a schedule is the right thing to do.”

Tony's eyes narrowed. “But.”

Steve smiled. “No 'but,' Tony. You're right.”

Tony stared at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Steve just waited, because he was more patient than Tony, and they both knew it. Tony glanced away, towards Dummy's charging station. “And I'm still not going to win.”

“I don't know if there's a 'winning' here,” Steve admitted. “I think there's a-” He paused, his fingers tapping idly against the top of the workbench. “Balance,” he said at last. “Between what DJ needs, what we want, and what we have to do.”

Tony groaned, scraping both hands over his face. “Goddammit,” he muttered, muffling the word against the hollow of his palms. He rocked back, wanting to move and not wanting to give into that impulse. “Fuck.”

Steve hid a smile behind one hand. “A little bit,” he agreed.

Tony glared in his general direction. “Help me out here,” he said. “Really. Help me. Because you lived through the goddamn DEPRESSSION and you're not doing-” He wobbled a hand through the air. 

“I'm doing?” Steve prompted him.

"You're not crazy," Tony groused, pressing a hand to his eyes. Next to him, Steve chuckled, and he raised his hand just enough to glare in that direction. "Okay, you're crazy, you're not irrational about food. And you grew up hungry."

Steve smiled, just a little. "It's different."

"Yeah, you had it worse, so-"

Steve shook his head. "It's different because everyone starved." He took a deep breath, and let it out. "Tony, during the depression, EVERYONE starved. Back then, you fed your own and then you didn't begrudge it when someone else needed to scrape your pot. You stood in line for a bowl of soup and then you split your portion with a fella who didn't get any.”

He glanced at Tony, his head tipped forward. "Everyone starved. The whole world starved." His fingers flexed, his hands going to fists for a second, then relaxing. "There's a lot who remember that, who hoard food, who do all sorts of things they know they don't do anymore, but-"

"But you're okay," Tony said, when Steve's words trailed away.

Steve smiled. "When I came out of the ice,” he said, “when SHIELD first started letting me wander out on my own, with money in my pocket? I bought a chicken every day.”

Tony blinked at him. “What?”

“Every day, I went to the grocery store,” Steve said, his voice patient, “and I bought a chicken.”

Tony leaned back, studying him. “Every day?” Steve nodded, his lips twitching up. “How long did you-”

“Four months?” Steve said. “About that long, I guess.”

“Every DAY?” Tony asked. “You ate- Why?”

Steve looked at him, his eyebrows arched. “Because tomorrow, they might not have it,” he said, calm and steady, and it almost sounded rational in his voice. “Or I might not have the money to afford it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony said.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve said, and there was a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. “Don't even get me started on when I realized that pineapples were readily available every single day of the year.”

“You're killing me here,” Tony told him. Steve laughed, and Tony reached out, catching his hand. Steve wove their fingers together, his grip warm and firm. “Jesus, Steve.”

Steve shrugged. “People hide their crazy well,” he said. “And I was lucky. I had people looking out for me back then. And now.”

"I'll stockpile some canned goods," Tony told him, and Steve wrapped a big hand around the back of his head, tugging him close. The kiss was gentle, soft, and Tony leaned into it.

"You think you're kidding," Steve whispered against his lips, and Tony choked on a laugh. 

"Fine," he said, pushing at Steve's chest. Steve let him go, settling back on his stool. "So, if it was worse, then logically, you should be worse."

"It's not about worse or better," Steve said. "It's about, there was nothing, when I was hungry, and people still helped me. When Clint was hungry, there was food." He looked at Tony. "And no one fed him."

Tony scraped both hands over his face. "Fuuuuuuuuck," he muttered. He let his head fall back, staring up at the uncaring ceiling. "I do not need this."

"Well, tough," Steve said. "Half the reason why DJ can eat on a schedule is because you've been letting Clint do a lot of the feeding around here, and you know it."

Tony made a face. "I should charge him rent and get a cook that'll follow orders."

"Or you can make a slight concession out of respect for a friend."

"That sounds tedious," Tony told him, and Steve smiled.

“Yeah, so's living with you, and somehow, we suffer through,” Steve said, and Tony struggled against a grin. “This is how he takes care of your kid, Stark. This is-” He stopped, his eyes finding Tony's. “Feeding him is an act of love.”

Tony ignored the ache in his throat. "Even if it's trash?”

"He's not handing DJ a bag of chips or a slice of cake before dinner," Steve pointed out. "He's not letting him skip meals and feeding him frozen pizza for breakfast."

"I've eaten frozen pizza for breakfast," Tony admitted. Steve gave him a look, and he shrugged. "Look, I've made worse choices."

"I'll bet," Steve said. "But whether you see it or not, Tony, he's already meeting you halfway.”

"So you're saying I should let him do it."

"I'm saying he's going to do it, because he can't not," Steve said. "It's not rational. And that makes it harder. No matter what you say, or how much of a fight you make this.” His eyebrows arched. “Hunger messes you up, Tony. Being hungry as a kid, and being ashamed of being hungry, being ashamed of being poor, that...”

“Sticks with you,” Tony said, because he could understand that. Trauma. He understood trauma. He shook off the thought. “Fine.”

Steve paused. “Fine?” he asked, and Tony flapped a hand in his direction. It said a lot about their relationship that Steve understood, and even more that he actually went along with it. Tony reached for a circuit board, and Steve pushed the soldering iron closer to him without being asked. Tony loved him, for that alone. 

Steve stood, moving behind him to slide his arms around Tony's waist and rest his chin against Tony's head. “I love you.”

Tony made a non-committal sound. "You're going to be smug about this, aren't you?" he asked, squinting down at his work. “I don't care. Just to be clear. Don't care. But I feel I deserve a fair warning.” 

He felt Steve shrug against his back. "Smug is such an ugly word," he said, and Tony laughed. Steve's arms tightened around his waist. "We all have our issues, Tony."

"Right. When, exactly, will we be hitting yours, because this is starting to feel one sided, and I resent that, there's resentment here, and you need to develop some flaws or I'm going to rethink this relationship." It was easy to say, because Steve was solid and steady against his back, the weight of his arms around Tony's waist familiar and comforting. 

It was all disgustingly domestic. Tony let his eyes fall closed, and his head fall back against Steve's shoulder. He couldn't bring himsel to care.

Steve kissed his neck. “I'll work on that.”

“You do that. Ass,” Tony grumbled. He reached up, smoothing his fingers over Steve's hair. “Tell me I'm right.”

Steve's laughter was a warm exhale against his skin, making him shiver. “You're right. And you're going to have to talk this out with Clint, anyway.”

Tony winced. “Fuck. Isn't there any other way we can handle this? Like, by ignoring the issue forever and pretending it doesn't exist?”

“Tempting, but no.”

“Goddammit.” Resigned, Tony reached for the bowl. Turned out, he was hungry. 

*

Tony'd expected to find the kitchen empty. It was early, after all, and none of them, other than Steve, were really morning people. So Steve went running, in the early morning, just after dawn, when the city was as close to still and quiet as it ever got.

And the rest of them slept, when they had the chance.

But even before he pushed the door open, he could smell the familiar scent of fresh brewed coffee, mingled with something far sweeter. 

Clint looked up from the oven. He was barefoot, wearing a pair of ratty sweatpants and a t-shirt that had seen better days. “Morning,” he said, opening the oven door. “Figured you were on your way down when Jarvis turned on the coffee pot.”

“Jarvis knows what I need,” Tony agreed. He wandered across the kitchen, keeping a cautious eye on Clint, who was focused on pulling a muffin tin out of the oven and sliding a new one in before shutting the door. 'Want a cup?”

Clint left the tin on top of the stove, digging in the cabinet next to the oven. “Sure,” he said, his voice muffled by his position. “Grab some plates, too.”

By the time Tony set the coffee cups and plates down on the table, Clint had found a cooling rack. “Give me your plate,” Clint said.

Tony did as he was told, and Clint pulled a muffin out of the tin and dropped it onto the plate. Tony studied it. It was steaming, the golden brown top laced with cinnamon sugar. "Is this... Did you make muffins?"

"Yeah," Clint said, tipping the rest of the muffins out of the tin and onto the rack. 

Tony set the plate down gave the muffin a poke. The top was warm and springy. He poked it again for good measure. "Stop playing with your food and eat it," Clint said, wiping his hands on a tea towel. "What the fuck? Were you raised by wolves?"

"Nannies, mostly. Since when do you make muffins?" Tony asked.

Clint gave him a look. "Dude, they're from a box. You cut open the little plastic bag and add, like, oil and water and eggs and dump them in muffin tins, DJ could probably do it without help."

"Yeah, but he's smarter than you," Tony said, and a butter knife stabbed down in the middle of his muffin. Tony rocked back in his seat, and Clint flipped the knife, muffin still decorating the blade, around in his hand. Tony stared at his now empty plate. "I just lost muffin privileges, didn't I?"

"You just lost muffin privileges," Clint agreed. "Everyone gets muffins except you."

Tony eyed the rack of muffins. "That seems like a dick move."

"So is calling the baker dumb," Clint said. Keeping eye contact with Tony the entire time, he took an enthusiastic bite out of the side of the muffin.

Tony hid his grin behind his coffee cup. "Good?"

"Delicious," Clint said, his mouth full. "Sucks to be you."

"Usually," Tony agreed. He set his coffee down. "Thanks." Clint glanced at him, crumbs still clinging to the corners of his mouth, and Tony gave him a lopsided smile. "For feeding my kid."

Clint nodded. His fingers picked at the top of the muffin, breaking away a small piece. He didn't eat it. "I'll try to keep the 'between meals' thing under control," he said at last.

"I have to have a schedule," Tony said, staring down at his mug. He wrapped his hands around the porcelain, his fingers flexing against the side. "I can't feed myself, let alone be responsible for feeding someone else, especially a small someone, you know me, I'm bad at the whole-" He stopped, his shoulders rising in a shrug. "The whole thing."

"The basic survival thing?" Clint asked.

"Sometimes I'm bad at that," Tony said. “And I was okay with that when I was the only one I was hurting. But now there's DJ and I know there's no such thing as control. But I feel like I should try.” He looked up. “So anything that interferes with that, I kind of...” He shrugged. “Because I'm bad at running my life.”

There was a long moment of silence, just long enough for him to feel incredibly stupid, and then half of the muffin was dropped onto the plate in front of him. Clint sank down onto the seat next to him at the table. "Yeah. Me, too."

Tony considered the muffin. "This is the half you already took a bite out of," he pointed out. Clint met his gaze without blinking, and took a slow, deliberate bite of the half in his hand. Tony struggled against a smile. "You don't care, do you?"

"I do not give a fuck," Clint agreed. "Shut up and eat your muffin. And be grateful, Jesus."

"This muffin is substandard," Tony said, before he even bothered to take a bite. "I think you forgot something."

"It's got three ingredients, what the hell could I have forgotten?"

“Love,” Tony said, and Clint made a grab for the muffin. Tony jerked to the side, twisting around on his stool and shoving the rest of the muffin into his mouth. “Geh oaf!” he managed, and Clint was laughing as he sat back down.

“God, how did you survive when you lived alone?” he asked.

“My bots made me smoothies and Pepper pre-emptively ordered me takeout,” Tony admitted. He licked crumbs off of his thumb. “Know what? I could go for a croissant.”

“Guess you better learn to bake, then,” Clint said, as the oven timer went off. He pushed himself to his feet. “Cause I'm not even trying that shit. Unless it's the kind that comes from a can. Those I can do.”

“Blasphemy,” Tony told him. The muffins were unprotected. He took another one, and split it in half before Clint could catch him at it.”

“You let a robotic arm on wheels be responsible for your meals for like, five years and you're looking down your nose at canned bread dough?” Clint asked. 

“I'm a hypocrite, but I make it work for me.” Tony reached for his coffee. “If something happens to me,” he said, and Clint stilled. “Steve will take care of DJ. That's, that's the obvious part of it.” He rotated the cup in his hands. “But if something happens to both of us-”

Clint turned away, crossing to the oven. “Nothing's going to happen to you,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I'm not so sure. We're in a dangerous line of work.” Tony studied the surface of the coffee. He could almost see his reflection in the dark depths. “Rhodey'd take him. That's obvious, I know he would. But he's stationed on the other side of the country, and DJ couldn't cope with that move. This-” Tony waved a hand at the room in general. “This is all he knows. He might be able to adjust, but...” He shrugged. “Anyway. You're the logical choice.”

Clint stared at him. Tony folded his arms on the edge of the counter. “You and Phil, I mean.” He took a deep breath and let it out, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. “What do you say?”

Clint spread his hands wide. “What the fuck?”

“Original,” Tony said, reaching for his coffee cup. “I mean, not intelligent or classy, but original. Bet the lawyers hear it all the time, but still, maybe not-”

“No, seriously, what the fuck?” Clint asked. He leaned back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. “Where the hell is this coming from? Why now?”

Tony shrugged. “Seemed like a good time. We've got to settle things, before something happens.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you.” Clint shook his head. The oven timer beeped again, loud and insistent, and he turned away, tossing the door open to pull the muffin tin out. “No one in their right mind would put me in charge of a kid, Stark.”

Tony gave a half shrug, one shoulder rising and falling. “Yeah, well, Steve jumps out of planes without a parachute and I strap jet engines to my legs.” He grinned into his coffee cup. “We might not be the most mentally stable couple you've ever met.”

There was a long, still silence, and then Clint dropped onto the stool next to him. Tony tapped a fingertip against the rim of his coffee cup. “Well?”

Clint tossed the new muffins onto the cooling rack with the others. One rolled free, and he snagged it, dropping it onto his plate. “Well, what?” he said, his head down.

Tony glanced in his direction. “Just think about it. I'm an engineer. I like contingency plans.”

Clint's lips twitched up. “Redundancies,” he said. Tony glanced at him, and Clint nodded. “I'll... Talk to Phil.”

Tony nodded. “Can I have another muffin?”

“No.”

“I'm going to take that as a yes,” Tony said, reaching for the cooling rack.

“We're gonna be eating in like, five minutes,” Clint said. “You're going to ruin your breakfast.”

Tony smiled. “Jarvis, is Dummy still on his charging station?”

“He is,” Jarvis said.

“Tell him Clint made him muffins,” Tony said. “And that if he wants one, he needs to come up soon, because otherwise I'm going to eat them all.”

Clint picked one up of the cooling rack and put it on a plate, safely out of Tony's reach. “Tell him I'll save him one.”

“I suspect,” Jarvis said, “that he was already aware of this, but I'll be certain to remind him.”

“There's like twenty muffins here,” Tony pointed out. “I don't think you need to protect one from me.”

Clint picked up his coffee cup. “And yet, that's exactly what I'm going to do,” he said. “Get used to it.”

Tony stole a piece of Clint's muffin. “I'm getting there.”


	3. Ladies Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For kaguya-yoru, who requested some ladies. Having some chats.
> 
> They are bad at chats. And it's been a very long few days.

“So, where are we going?”

Maria Hill looked up from her phone as Anna Garza stalked onto the elevator. Maria took a step to the side, giving her a wide berth. “I don't know about you,” she said, as Anna stabbed at the lobby button six or seven times. “But I'm going home.”

“Yeah. Okay. We're not doing that,” Anna said. She stabbed the button again.

Maria glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. “I am,” she said, with all the emphasis on the first word. “You can do what you'd like, but the elevator's not going to move any faster just because you try to break the control panel.”

“It might,” Anna said. She gave the button one last sharp punch. “And no, I'm not. I'm going out for dinner, or at least drinks, and you-” She pointed her button-stabbing finger in Maria's direction. “-Are coming with me.”

The elevator stopped with a muted ding, and Maria held up her hands. “No,” she said, as the doors opened. “Absolutely not. I'm not going out with you.”

On the other side of the elevator door, Jane and Darcy stood there for a second, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Anna stuck her foot out to hold the door open. “You coming or not?” she asked.

Jane cleared her throat. “We'll, we'll get the next one,” she said, right before Darcy grabbed her arm and strode forward, dragging a protesting Jane along with her.

“No, we won't, the good gossip's happening on this one,” Darcy said, blocking Jane's attempts to escape. 

“Listen,” Anna said, ignoring them both. “I have been here for three days. I've been showering in the gym. I'm wearing my emergency socks.”

“You have emergency socks?” Maria asked her, stymied.

“Everyone in the science department has emergency socks,” Darcy said. Her nose wrinkled. “Fortunately.”

“I have two pairs,” Jane said helpfully.

“Jane is extra prepared,” Darcy agreed. “For science emergencies involving socks.”

“Why do you-”

“I've been here for three days because there's a whole strike squad down in my medical bay who have flowers growing in their hair,” Anna said, her voice flat, and Maria huffed out a sigh. Anna leaned in, her eyes narrowing. “Flowers. Growing. Out of their-”

“Yes, I'm aware,” Maria said, cutting her off. “I've read the situation reports, Anna, and-”

“You've read it, I've lived it,” Anna said. “I've got a desk full of mingled hair and vegetation clippings, and I think I'm owed a drink, and I think you're going to be buying me one.” She looked at Darcy and Jane, appealing to them with her hands on her hips. “Drinks. You in?”

“Always,” Darcy said without missing a beat. She wrapped an arm around Jane's shoulders. “We are 100% in.”

“I really have some things I should be reviewing, and-” Jane started, and everyone ignored her.

“If you're off shift, you can do what you want,” Maria said. “I don't see why you feel the need to try to involve me.”

"Because when I took this job," Anna said, "and by that I mean, when I was TRICKED into taking this job by you and your minions, I expected a medical position with an accredited government organization. Instead, I'm the goddamn head of Magical Ailments and Archaic Curses at fucking Hogwarts."

Maria stared her down. "I have no idea what that means."

"Bull," Anna said, her voice flat. She threw her hands in the air. "There is no way you don't know what that means."

"I know what that means," Darcy said. 

"You need to stop talking now," Jane said, very, very quietly.

Darcy ignored her. "She definitely knows what that means," she said, hooking a thumb in Jane's direction.

Jane stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the closed elevator doors, hugging her files with a death grip. "I need you to stop involving me in this, Darcy."

"Oh, she knows what we mean, too," Anna said, gesturing in Maria's direction. Maria ignored her. It was harder than it should've been. "She just likes to pretend that she's beyond the cares of us mere mortals.”

Maria struggled to keep her face straight. It wasn't funny, she had to remind herself of that. Absolutely not funny. “Aren't you feeling insubordinate tonight,” she mused.

“That's pretty much every night,” Anna said. “Because, really, what're you going to do, fire me? Good luck finding someone else who'll mist Sitwell's new moss bouffant.”

“Did we figure out the genus, by the way?” Jane asked her. “Reece was going crazy over those spores.”

“Pretty sure it's ceratodon, but I mean, it's moss.” She waved a hand over her head. “Shouldn't be growing from his scalp, even if it's rock cap moss. It's just wrong.”

“I think he makes it work,” Darcy said. “It's a nice look on him.”

“He looks like he was left in a damp basement too long,” Jane said, as the elevator came to a stop with a muted ping. “But... Cheerful about it.”

The elevator door opened, revealing Natasha and Bobbi Morse, both in workout gear, waiting to step in. "You know what Hogwarts is, don't you?" Anna demanded, before either of them could take a single step.

Natasha, her hands gripping the towel thrown around her neck, just arched an eyebrow at them. Right behind her, Bobbi was bouncing one of her batons between her hands, flipping it with with a flick of her wrist and bouncing it off her elbow before snatching it out of the air. She waved it in Anna's direction. "Wingardium leviosa,” she said, grinning.

“Isn't it-” Jane started, and Darcy gave her a look. Jane subsided. “Well, it is.”

“Pronunciation aside,” Anna said, her lips twitching, “she knows what Hogwarts is.”

Maria set her finger very deliberately on the 'close door' button. Somehow, both Bobbi and Natasha made it in before the doors slid shut. “How nice for her.”

“We're going out,” Darcy said to Natasha. “Wanna come?”

“Yes,” Natasha said. Next to her, Bobbi was still juggling her batons, the short sticks a blur as she tossed them in an ever more complicated set of movements. Natasha reached and snagged one from mid-air. “You're going to hit someone.”

“Only if someone's too dumb to dodge,” Bobbi said with a grin. She wiggled her fingers in Natasha's direction, and Natasha tossed the baton back to her. Bobbi caught it and rolled it around her hand and wrist, balancing it precisely on the back of her knuckles. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere with booze and fried food,” Darcy said. Her eyes were locked on Bobbi's hands. “How often do you hit yourself in the face?”

“Never,” Bobbi said, at the same time that Natasha said, “All the time.”

“Seems right,” Darcy said. She considered them. “Can I-”

“No,” Natasha said, and Darcy made a whining noise. Natasha patted her on the head. “Not a chance.”

Maria leaned her shoulder against the wall, smiling a little to herself as the elevator came to a smooth stop. The doors opened into the lobby, and before she could move, Anna stretched her hand in front of her, blocking the way out. “We're going out,” she said, her eyes locked on Maria's. “Come with us.”

“Thank you for the offer.” Maria gave her arm a pointed look. “But I have things I need to do.”

"Or what?" Anna arched an eyebrow. "You have a better offer? Something other than your Netflix queue and a freezer-burned Lean Cuisine?" She gave Maria a smug smile. "You don't even have a cat."

There was a long, still moment of silence, and then someone behind her let out a soft, low whistle. Maria ignored it. "Are you TRYING to get fired?" she asked.

Anna gave a half shrug. "It would be nice to see where the line is," she admitted. "But I think it's a bit further out than this. Especially since your medical staff has the sort of turnover you usually only see when war crimes are involved." She crossed her arms over her chest, rocking back on her heels. "So, where are we going?"

She shouldn't. This was a bad idea. It seemed like weakness, or if not weakness, something that would be seen as weakness. She was as human as the rest of them, as tired and stressed and pushed to the limit as anyone else under her command, but it was different for her. It was always going to be different for her. She had a position to maintain, she had people who depended on her to be more than human. To be exempt from that sort of weakness, that kind of frailty. 

But goddamn, she was tired of Glazed Turkey Tenderloin.

"Fine," she said. She reached out, punching the button for the parking garage. "I'm driving."

There was a beat of silence. "Wait, really?" Darcy asked.

"All, I mean, everyone?" Jane asked. Her eyes darted from one side to the other. "Because I have, there's something I should be-"

"You have nothing," Darcy said, her voice dire. "We have nothing. We live in New York, it's eight PM on a Friday, and we have fuck-all to do. We're going."

"Don't you have a boyfriend?" Bobbi asked. There was nothing mean spirited about the question, just an open sort of curiosity. She spun a baton on the tip of her finger. “I heard you had a boyfriend.”

"She has a boyfriend," Natasha confirmed, staring down at her phone. Maria felt a small pang of something like jealousy, irrational and petty. But sometimes, having an alien warrior princess as a girlfriend was very, very difficult. Worth it. But difficult none the less.

"I have a boyfriend, too," Jane said. Everyone looked at her, and she gave a tiny shrug. "You... All knew that, didn't you?"

"Thor is many things, darling Jane. Subtle is not on the list," Darcy said. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "And yes. I have a boyfriend. Who is currently in a cubicle on level 'you're fucked' in this building, crunching numbers on a data simulation about moss growth."

"So, he's watching grass grow?" Bobbi asked, grinning.

"No, he's watching a computer program tell him how grass would grow, were the grass an actual thing that grew under certain circumstances with certain known parameters." Darcy paused. "He's so happy right now, it's hysterical."

Bobbi patted her on the shoulder. "Quite the catch there."

"Point one, yes, he is, and point two, didn't you date Clint?" Darcy asked her.

"Oh, Jesus," Bobbi said.

"You didn't," Anna said, her voice flat.

Bobbi threw her hands up. "It was like, ONE DAY people, will no one ever let me live this down?"

Natasha tapped away at her phone. "You need to own it," she said, her lips curling up. "No one snarks at me about it, and I dated him a lot longer than one day."

"Yeah, but you're terrifying."

Natasha's smile stretched into a grin, broad and supremely satisfied. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"And on that note, where are we going?" Anna asked. "Because I want a margarita." She held her hands in front of her. "I want a margarita the size of my head. Giant. Salt covered. Margarita."

"No," Maria told her.

"Don't even try to 'no' me," Anna said. "I can shave Sitwell right now and cover your office door with-"

"Please stop talking," Maria said, as the elevator dinged. "Fine, we'll find a place that serves trash alcohol for your trash drinks, because no legitimate bar would-"

"I want a goldfish bowl filled with blue stuff," Darcy said. "The kind of drink that comes with six straws because they like to pretend you're sharing it and you are not going to share it."

"No," everyone else said, almost as once, with varying degrees of volume.

"Darcy, no," Jane said.

"Darcy, YES," Darcy said with a grin.

"Romanov, that is your problem," Maria said, pointing in Darcy's direction. "Deal with it."

"Behave," Natasha said to Darcy. Darcy pouted up at her, and Natasha's lips twitched. "Fine. Don't behave. Just don't get caught."

"More doable." The doors of the elevator opened and Darcy bounced out. "I'm thinking trashy chain restaurant, trashy drinks, trashy food, making some poor waitress' night."

"I could go for an entire onion, battered, and tossed in the frier," Anna mused. She looked around the garage. "Can we take something-" She waved a hand through the air. "Something in a late model tank?"

"I am not arming you, in any way," Maria said. "I'm especially not giving you an armored vehicle."

"The seats in those suck anyway," Bobbi said. She bounced the tip of her baton against the curve of her shoulder. "We can fit into an SUV, right?"

“Not unless someone sits on someone's lap,” Natasha said. She was texting away on her phone. “We've got seven.”

“No, we-” Maria stopped. “Who did you invite?”

“Pepper,” Natasha said.

“Pepper,” Maria parroted. “Pepper Potts.”

“Pepper Potts,” Natasha agreed.

“Pepper Potts, CEO of StarkIndustries.”

“Style icon and international jetsetter,” Natasha agreed. “Yes. That Pepper Potts.”

Maria stared at her. “Did you tell her that we were going to drink bad booze and eat bad food, probably at some bad chain restaurant in Queens somewhere?”

Natasha held up her phone. The text read, “Pick me up in fifteen minutes.”

Maria stared at it for a long, silent moment. Then she took a deep breath. “Right. Seven.”

“Soooo,” Anna said, her voice chipper, “armored troop transport?”

“Soooo,” Maria shot back. “Minivan.” She set off across the parking garage, heading straight for the rear of the space, where they kept the civilian vehicles. She didn't bother to look back to see if anyone was following her. It was probably better if they weren't.

“Wait,” Darcy said, from just behind her. “SHIELD has a minivan?”

“I think we have more than one,” Bobbi said. “In that SHIELD's motto is, if it's worth doing, it's worth overdoing.”

“I thought it was 'huh, that looks flammable,'” Anna said.

Maria choked on a laugh. “Anything's flammable if you try hard enough,” she said. Two rows, three, and she found what she was looking for, a cheerful little teal blue minivan with New Jersey plates. “Load it up, ladies.” She slipped into the driver's seat, as Darcy, Bobbi and Natasha piled into the far back and Jane and Anna took the middle seats, leaving the passenger seat for Pepper.

“Does anyone know where we're going?” Jane asked, fastening her seatbelt.

“Where's the nearest White Castle?” Darcy asked, to a chorus of groans. She made a face. “What?”

“No,” Anna said. “Absolutely not. I was promised alcohol.”

“Yeah, this is New York, we can get alcohol, like, anywhere,” Darcy said. “Sliders are a different story.”

“No,” Maria said, cranking the engine. “Try again, Lewis.”

“Applebees,” someone said, and Maria made an effort not to figure out who it was.

“No, and also, you should be ashamed of yourself,” she said, setting off a wave of laughter. “I mean, at least IHOP has pancakes.”

“Booze, booze, booze,” Anna chanted, kicking the back of Maria's seat. Maria glared at her in the rear view mirror, and Anna gave her a wide, bright grin, and a very distinct kick.

“I will turn this thing around, so help me God,” Maria said, as the minivan rolled out of the garage.

“Good luck with that in Manhattan traffic,” Bobbi called from the back. She and Natasha were up to something, Maria could tell that at a glance, their heads down over their phones. Between them, Darcy was sitting straight upright, her hands folded in her lap like a proper school girl. Maria didn't trust any of it.

By the time that they pulled up in front of the main SI building, Maria felt like she'd gotten a full rundown of every chain restaurant in a fifty mile radius. Despite herself, she was almost looking forward to a run to Chili's at this point.

She pressed a hand to her eyes. She was losing her mind.

The sound of the passenger door opening brought her head up. “You're double parked,” Pepper said, sliding into the passenger seat. She was crisp and perfect in a black suit trimmed with delicate, intricate gold thread at the hem of her jacket and skirt. She gave Maria a bright smile. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Thank yous should wait until you find out where we're eating,” Maria said, throwing the minivan into gear and steering them back into traffic. 

“Oh, do we have options?” Pepper asked, twisting around.

“So many,” Jane said. “All of them bad.”

“Thank god,” Pepper said. She grinned at Jane. “Do I get a vote?”

“Depends on what you're voting for,” Natasha said. 

“A burger and a cocktail the size of my head,” Pepper said without missing a beat.

“Right,” Maria said. “Can we narrow it down? Just a little? Directions would help.”

“Get us off Manhattan,” Pepper said, and Maria couldn't argue with that.

Driving in New York left little space to think about anything else. As she steered them through the darkened and still crowded streets, they argued behind her, throwing insults and opinions at each other. The lights of the city blotted out the stars, blinded them to anything beyond the city limits, and the night air was hot and heavy, summer lingering long past the setting of the sun.

Maria just drove, road giving way to road, following signs and turns at random, the world flying by outside the windows. She focused on the road, ignoring the strange, liberating sense of escape that crept over her as each mile ticked by. She was leaving something behind, some part of her that she wasn't sure she was going to miss. It would be waiting for her, when she turned around, when she went back to her real life.

For for this small, stolen moment, it was nice to not be her. To be less. And somehow more.

“I want french fries,” Pepper declared, with such conviction that it broken into Maria's mental reverie and startled a laugh out of her.

"Question," Darcy said, pushing herself forward between Jane and Anna. "Rude question."

Pepper grinned at her in the rearview mirror. "Somehow, I expected nothing less."

Darcy braced an arm on the back of Jane's chair. "How the hell are you so tiny? What are you, a size zero?"

"Close," Pepper said. She twisted around, holding up her hand. "One. Crazy metabolism." 

“Okay, so this isn't going to work out for me, is it?” Darcy asked.

Pepper held up a second finger. "Two. Very, very precise diet and exercise plan."

"Well, I'm out," Darcy said, tossing herself back into her seat.

"Jesus, Darcy," Jane said, as Bobbi buried her face in the crook of her arm to muffle her laughter.

"Three, and this is a big one," Pepper said, flicking the third finger up with a twitch of her wrist, "is the stress involved with being responsible, in some way, for the social life, public image, or financial and emotional well being of Tony Stark for the last..." Her eyes narrowed as she did the mental calculations. "More than a decade."

"Aaaaand the rest of us are out," Natasha drawled from the back seat.

Pepper glanced at Maria, who tried to keep a straight face. "You're an American hero," she said, because there is no fucking way she would've been able to do it without putting a gun to the man's head about six months in. She didn't even see him that often, and the urge would still hit her from time to time. "And the country honors your sacrifice."

"Damn right. I want bread," Pepper told her.

Maria blinked. "All right?" she managed at last, because everyone else in the van was laughing hysterically, and Pepper seemed to want some sort of a response. "We'll find a place with a bread basket, and-"

Pepper pointed. "There's a Panera. Pull over."

"We're not going to-" Maria started, and Pepper turned a look on her that could've flash-frozen fire. 

“Today, Tony went to a Senate hearing and compared the latest budget numbers to, and I quote, 'the work of a hundred drunk monkeys slamming a calculator against a drunken CPA,” Pepper said. “That was my day. So, when I say, 'pull over, there's a Panera,' you say-” She waved a hand at Maria.

Maria bit back a smile. "Right. We're going to Panera."

"Damn right we are," Pepper muttered, and someone in the back seat was applauding. Maria considered bailing out the vehicle, but knowing her luck, they'd follow. 

Instead, she hit the turn signal and sent the minivan trundling along on its way into the parking lot of a very unimpressive strip mall. "No one else move," she said, as Pepper unbuckled her seatbelt. She glanced at the rear view mirror. "Lewis. Sit your ass back down."

Darcy pointed. "There's a Starbucks."

"Yes, there's a Starbucks. In that we're in a populated area in the Modern United States, so of course there's a Starbucks." She put the van in park and twisted around. "There's always going to be a Starbucks. We stand no chance of NOT finding-"

"Who wants a latte?" Anna asked, throwing the door open.

Maria glared at her. "I thought I locked that."

"It's so cute that you think you can childproof us," Anna said, her feet already safely on the ground. "Anyone? Latte?"

"I'll come, you'll never get my order right," Natasha said, sliding out of her seat. "Bobbi, you coming?"

Bobbi yawned. "No, I am lazy." She gave Natasha a wide grin as Darcy dragged Jane out of her seat. "Bring me a chai?"

"No," Natasha told her.

"I'll get you a chai," Darcy said, nudging Jane towards the storefronts.

"And that is why you're my favorite,” Bobbi said, focusing on her phone.

Maria gave up. "Cappuccino." She watched, her arms folded on the steering wheel, as they scattered across the parking lot. It was second nature, noting who went where, noting when they left her line of sight, the mental timer kicking in as soon as the doors shut behind them. She always knew where her people were, that was her responsibility. 

“You okay?”

Maria's eyes flicked up towards the rear view mirror. In the far back of the minivan, Bobbi was still staring down at her phone, her face lit by the pale glow. As Maria watched, her thumbs danced over the surface. “Who're you texting now?”

“Just following up on some things,” Bobbi said. Her eyes came up, meeting Maria's in the mirror. “You okay?” she asked again.

Maria went back to watching the strip mall. “Of course,” she said, ignoring the way her thumb flicked against the steering wheel.

There was a beat of silence. “Okay,” Bobbi said.

Maria felt her face relax into a smile. “Thank you. For asking.”

“Just making sure you're not going to drive us into the river or something,” Bobbi said, and Maria grinned.

“I'll let you know,” she said, as Pepper strode out of Panera, a massive paper bag swinging from one hand and a box clutched to her chest. Maria kept an eye on the Starbucks, waiting for the rest of them, as Pepper finagled the bag into the passenger door. “Find what you were looking for?”

“Turns out that if you throw a black AmEx on the counter and say 'give me everything you have left,' the service is pretty quick,” Pepper said. She opened the box and held it out. “Mini-scone?”

“Toss me one,” Bobbi said, as Maria selected a bite sized pastry. Pepper twisted around in the seat and tossed the scone back to Bobbi, who caught it one handed. “Thank you!”

“How's Sif?” Pepper asked, and Maria nearly choked on her scone.

“What?” she managed. “I mean, I'm sure she's fine, but why-” The words trailed away, and she did her best not to look back at Bobbi.

Pepper popped a corner of a scone into her mouth. “Tony said you were dating?” she asked, her eyebrows drawing up. Maria stared at her, and Pepper bit her lip. “Unless he was wrong?”

“We're not-” Maria scraped a hand over her face. “I'm sure she's fine.”

“So you're... Not dating?” Pepper asked.

“It's-” Maria gave her a tight smile. “It's complicated.”

“Never has a Facebook status been more appropriate,” Bobbi muttered from the rear of the minivan, and Maria turned around in her seat.

“Do you have something to add, Agent?”

“No, ma'am,” Bobbi said, as Natasha opened the door. “Not a word, ma'am.”

Maria turned her glare on Natasha. “Don't suppose you'd know how Stark ended up knowing anything about my love life?” she asked.

Natasha settled back into her seat. “Because SHIELD runs entirely on gossip and hearsay?” she asked, unconcerned. “And because Thor is pleased Sif's made a good match and he and Tony are into everyone else's business at all times?”

Maria pressed a hand to her face. “Of course,” she said, because of course she couldn't have a private life that wasn't public knowledge. She should've known better. 

Natasha took a very audible sip of her coffee. “Just so you know,” she said, because the woman did not fear death AT ALL, “Thor's concerned that Sif hasn't been by recently.”

“Yes, well,” Maria said, as Jane and Anna climbed into the minivan, Darcy bringing up the rear. “She didn't exactly give me her cell number, so... We wait for disasters for our paths to cross.”

“Oh,” Darcy said, stopping dead. “I know how to contact Sif.”

Maria blinked at her. “What?”

Darcy handed both cups to her through the window. “Here. Take these. The reception's better out here.” She took a step back from the minivan, and looked up, her hands cupped around her mouth. “HEY!” she yelled, and everyone froze, staring at her. Darcy didn't seem to notice. “HEY! HEIMDALL!”

“What is she doing?” Maria asked, the words stumbling out of her.

“Yelling at the sky in a strip mall parking lot,” Jane said, her voice dire. “We do this. A lot.”

“I demand to be friends with both of you,” Bobbi said. “Where do I sign up?”

Outside, Darcy was still going. “CAN YOU TELL SIF THAT MARIA WANTS TO SEE HER? CAUSE THAT'D BE AWESOME. I'M NOT USING THE WORDS BOOTY CALL-”

“I will shoot you,” Maria said, and she was pretty sure she meant it. Anna was clapping like a seal behind her. “I am armed and I will absolutely-”

“RIGHT. NOT A BOOTY CALL,” Darcy said, taking a big step away from the minivan. “BUT HOOK A GIRL UP, OKAY? BE A BRO.”

She stopped. “There we go,” she said with a bright smile.

“Get in the goddamn van,” Maria said through gritted teeth. “Before I have you deported.”

“Ooooh, where to?” Darcy said, as Jane grabbed her arm and dragged her into the van. In the back seat, Natasha and Bobbi were laughing hysterically, and Anna had acquired a full baguette from somewhere, probably from Pepper. 

“No where you want to be,” Maria told her. She started the van. “Now, where are we going?”

*

“I was promised booze,” Anna said.

“Shut the fuck up and eat your Blizzard,” Maria said. “We're getting to the booze.” She stuck her plastic spoon into the soft serve ice cream, digging around for a chunk of Butterfinger. “Not my fault someone spotted the Dairy Queen and wanted to stop.”

“I like ice cream,” Jane said. Her eyes darted around the group. “Who doesn't like ice cream?”

She sounded so honestly confused about that that Maria had to hide a smile behind her cup. Natasha patted Jane on the back. “Horrible people,” she said. 

“I want booze,” Anna said, leaning back against the van.

“And you're a horrible person, so...” Maria started, making Anna laugh.

“We have booze.”

As one, they turned. The parking lot was mostly empty at this hour, with a few bored teenagers hanging out on the far side of the lot, and a couple of young couples over by the building itself. But this close to closing, the few people that remained were finishing up their ice cream and moving on.

That didn't seem to be the case for the handful of boys clustered around two cars a few spots away from them. Maria suspected that Darcy and her rather low cut top had something to do with the way they were lingering. One of them was now leaning against the hood of the minivan, a paper bag propped on his hip. “Hi,” he said, with the most insincere smile Maria had ever seen.

Darcy blinked at him around her ice cream cone. “Bye,” she said, with a bright grin.

“Aw, don't be like that,” he said. “Want a beer?”

“You are like twelve,” Anna said. “Shoo.”

“Wanna flip for who gets to expel them?” Bobbi said to Natasha, her voice pitched low.

“I think Hill's got seniority,” Natasha said. “But it looks like there's enough for all of us.”

Maria studied the dozen or so young men. “I did miss a gym workout,” she said. She rolled her shoulders. “Do we give them a fair warning or-”

“What's the fun in that?” Bobbi asked, tossing her ice cream cup towards the trash can. “Hey, kiddo? Go away.”

He glanced at her. “Not talking to you,” he said. “Am I?”

Her teeth flashed. “No, but I'm talking to you. Shove off.”

He straightened up. “Or what?”

That was when the world exploded in a focused, brilliant burst of light.

The sound was almost familiar now, but it still sent a shiver up the full length of her spine. It was the crack of air being forcefully expelled from the space it had previously occupied, a mini explosion as everything was pushed out of the way of a coming storm. Somewhere in the background, people screamed, and a car started. Out of the corner of her eye, Maria saw the shutter on the Dairy Queen slam shut, and the workers came tumbling out the back door, making a run for their cars.

For a second, everything was still, only the crackle of the parking lot lights and the smoke rising from the seared asphalt breaking the tableau. Then Sif straightened up, her hair swirling around her shoulders, the lights of the parking lot gleaming along the metal of her armor and the exposed length of her sword. Her eyes met Maria's, her head coming around as if she'd known exactly where Maria would be. “You have need of me?” she asked.

Maria ignored the way her body was screaming a rather desperate affirmative. “Always,” she said. Cars were rolling out of the parking lot, fishtailing as they hit the road, and she bit back on a rather childish giggle. 

Sif's head tipped to the side. “Is there trouble?”

Before Maria could say a word, Darcy pointed at the kid with the bag, who looked like he was going to wet himself at any moment. “This guy is hassling me,” she said, with a broad grin.

Sif looked at him. “Break his legs,” she said. “Or an arm. That is occasionally sufficient to dissuade a man who does not know his place.”

“Know what?” the boy said. He shoved the paper bag into Darcy's hands. “You- You keep it. That's fine. You just-” He broke off in the middle of the sentence, heading back to his car at a stumbling, desperate sprint. He clipped his mirror, knocking himself off balance, and crashed to the ground. One hand came up, grabbing for the handle of the door and using it as leverage to drag himself up.

In a moment, he was in his car and roaring across the parking lot, leaving two of his buddies scrambling after him, screaming and waving their arms in a desperate attempt to get him to stop.

“That-” Darcy said, her arms wrapped around the bag, “was the best thing I've ever seen in my life.”

“Yes,” Maria said, as Sif crossed to them, sheathing her sword as she walked. Maria grinned at her, warmth and happiness and something pathetically like need sweeping through her. Sif grinned back, her eyes crinkling at the corners with the force of it. “Yes, it was.”

“Hello, beloved,” she said, leaning in for a kiss. She tasted like mint and cloves, and Maria's lips tingled when they finally broke apart. “Heimdall said that my presence would be welcome?”

“Heimdall was right,” Maria said, sliding an arm around Sif's waist. 

“THANKS HEIMDAAAAAAAAALL,” Darcy yelled.

Sif was laughing against Maria's temple. “You needn't yell,” she said, and the words were full of warmth and affection. “He will hear you, even should you whisper.”

“Yeah, but this is more fun,” Darcy said. Bobbi took the paper bag from her. “What'd we get?”

“Trash beer,” Bobbi said. She pulled out a can and opened it with a practiced motion. “It'll do while we wait for everyone else to get here.”

Maria, her face buried in the side of Sif's neck, Sif's arms around her waist, knew she should be worried about that. She should really, really be worried about that. It was hard to care, though, because Sif was whispering to her in a language she didn't speak, the words like honey and late afternoon sunshine on her skin. She didn't know what Sif was saying, but somehow she did, somehow she understood it enough to make her bite back a moan, her face hot.

Sif's fingers wrapped around her wrist. “What is this?” she asked, and Maria stared at the Blizzard in her hand like she'd never seen it before. 

“Ice cream,” she said. She grinned at Sif. “Want some?”

“Will you feed it to me?” Sif asked, her eyes dancing. 

“No,” Maria told her, but she pulled back, tugging Sif towards the picnic table on the edge of the parking lot. She took a seat on the top of the table, and Sif settled down on the bench between her spread legs, leaning back against her. Sif grinned up at her, the tip of her pink tongue poking out from between her lips. Maria arched an eyebrow at her, but she dug the spoon into the ice cream. “Fine.”

Back at the minivan, Bobbi and Natasha had somehow scrambled up onto the roof, both of them stripped down to their sports bras as they fought over the dregs of an M&M Blizzard. Darcy and Anna were leaning against the hood, with Pepper and Jane sitting on the pavement by their feet. Jane's shoes were tossed to the side, and Pepper's were arranged carefully by their hip, but they were both dipping chunks of stale pastry into a half-melted cup of vanilla ice cream.

Sif grinned up at her, the stem of Maria's spoon caught between her teeth. “Are you well?” she asked, reaching up to stroke Maria's jaw with rough fingertips. The touch sent a shiver through her, and Maria smiled down at her.

“I'm tired,” she admitted, the truth slipping out before she could even try to stop it. “It's been...” She stopped, shaking her head. “It's fine. I'm fine.”

Sif's knuckles tapped her on the chin. “Are you?” she asked, when Maria met her eyes.

Maria smiled at her. “I am now,” she whispered at last. And then, because she couldn't hold the words back, “Can you stay?”

Sif's smile was so bright, so brilliant, it hurt to look directly at her. “I am yours, beloved, for as long as you need me.”

Maria leaned forward, her arms looped around Sif's neck. The kiss was a strange one, all bad angles and neckstran, and she didn't care. Because she needed the warmth of Sif's lips the way she needed to breathe. “Don't make promises you can't keep,” she whispered against Sif's mouth.

Sif's fingers slipped into her hair. “I could no more lie to you,” she whispered back, “than I could will my heart to cease beating.” She caught Maria's hand, and tugged it down, pressing it first to the cool, unyielding metal of the armor that covered her breast, and then beneath it to warm, smooth skin. “I am yours.”

Maria buried her face in Sif's hair. “Right.” She took a deep breath, trying to get herself under control. “Wanna make out in the back of a minivan?”

“Yes,” Sif said immediately. She rolled to her feet and reached for Maria, lifting her straight off of the table. Laughing, Maria grabbed for her shoulders, and Sif grinned up at her. “This question need never be asked, the answer will always be yes.”

“Do you even know what a minivan is?” Maria asked her.

“No, but I know what 'making out' is, and that is the important portion of your query,” Sif pointed out, and Maria was laughing too hard to stand up. She leaned into the support of Sif's body, into the shelter of her shoulder. Sif wrapped her arms around Maria's waist. “I have missed you so, beloved.”

Maria smiled, her eyes sliding shut. “I missed you, too.” 

Sif kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips. “Shall we rejoin your friends?” she asked.

“Do we have to?” Maria asked, making Sif laugh. “And they're not my friends.”

“Strange. They seem to think otherwise,” Sif said. She stepped back, her fingers tangling with Maria's, tugging her along. “Darcy! What news from you?”

“I'm getting laid, getting ahead and getting promoted,” Darcy called, saluting Sif with a can of bad beer. 

“Not a chance,” Maria said. Her lips twitched. “But good try.”

“Figured it was worth a shot,” Darcy said, as a car rolled into the parking lot, the horn beeping as it pulled up next to them. 

“Wow, who thought they'd be the first ones to show up?” Natasha mused. 

Maria gave her a look. “What have you done?”

She grinned as the doors opened. “Called for backup, ma'am.”

“Hey,” Misty Knight said, pulling her sunglasses off. “You two are going to get arrested. Not by me, I can't be bothered, but yeah. You're going to get arrested.”

“Probably,” Natasha said, as Colleen Wing slid out of the passenger side. 

“Hey, losers,” Bobbi called down, her spoon clamped between her teeth. “What, you didn't bring your third?”

Misty rapped on the roof of the car with her metal knuckles. “We did,” she said.

In the back seat, a dark head struggled into view. Jessica pushed her hair out of her face, squinting into the parking lot lights. She was silent for a moment, her eyes just sliding back and forth over the landscape. “Where the fuck am I?” she asked at last.

Colleen leaned back against the side of the car, her arms crossed over her chest. “Long Island,” she said, her lips kicking up on one side.

Jessica considered that, her mouth a flat line. “Why the fuck would I be on Long Island?” she asked at last.

“Because you make poor choices,” Misty said, leaning her arms on top of the car. “Pretty much the reason why you end up anywhere.”

Jessica's mouth opened. Closed. “You might have a point,” she said, throwing the door open. She stumbled out of the car, scrubbing at her face with both hands. “I need an aspirin.”

“I might be able to help you with that,” Anna said. She opened the door to the minivan. “Step into my office.”

A dark, nondescript car pulled into the parking lot, and Maria wasn't surprised when it headed straight in their direction. “How many people did you invite?” she yelled at Natasha, who leaned back on her hands.

“Only a small, carefully selected guest list of-”

“All of them!” Bobbi yelled. “Angela! Did you hear about the mess down in the Florida bureau?”

Angela Del Toro paused, halfway out of the car. “That's what the dumbasses get for trying to smuggle cheese out of Paraguay,” she said. “How's SHIELD been doing since they crashed that flying fortress into the Alps?”

“We did not crash anything into the Alps,” Maria said, at the same time that Bobbi said, “It was amazing.”

Angela's head swiveled between them. “Riiiight,” she said, as the passenger door opened. “Claire, you know everyone?”

The woman looked around, her eyebrows scraping her hairline. “I do not know anyone here,” she said, with a faint smile. 

Angela slammed her door. “Let's fix that. “Claire Temple, this is Misty Knight and Coleen Wing.” She paused. “You have some mutual 'friends.'” She made finger quotes around the words.

“So, by 'friends,' do you mean 'possibly suicidal men?'” Claire asked.

“Oh, God, I know so many of those,” Misty said, extending a gleaming hand in her direction. Colleen had found Pepper and her bag of bread, and just gave them a half wave. “You gotta narrow it down.”

“So, as soon as the girls from Xavier's get here, we can move on,” Natasha said. She swung her legs idly in midair. “Who's up for hitting the nearest Hooters and putting the fear of god into some drunken frat boys?”

Every hand except Maria's went up. She glared at Sif. “Put your hand down.”

Sif grinned at her. “Mayhap you ought to lift yours,” she said.

Maria took a breath. Let it out. Raised her hand. “Let's go.”


	4. A Simple Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Tumblr user littleredreadinghood, who requested Lucy introducing DJ to one of her favorite foods.
> 
> Lucy is a very patient person. 8)

“I need you to stop freaking out.”

“It's HARD,” DJ said, because it was. He looked at the recipe, then back at the measuring cup, his fingers twisting at the fabric of his apron. There was certainly enough fabric; Lucy had given him the extra ruffly one. “How do I know it's EXACTLY one cup?”

Lucy pointed at the measuring cup. “When it fills that.” DJ gave her a look, and Lucy grinned at him. There was flour on her nose, and dusting the tips of her curls below the handkerchief she'd tied around her hair. “Seriously, Deej, we need three of those, and you've been working on one for, like, ten minutes now, the oven finished preheating, everything's ready to go, so can we move on?”

“This one's not ready yet,” he said. He tapped the measuring cup with the side of the knife, the way that Phil did sometimes. The flour settled again, and he frowned at it. How settled was too settled? How much air was still in there? Too much? Too little? He huffed out a breath, frustrated. “Weighing would be better.”

“No, it wouldn't.”

“More precise,” DJ pointed out.

“I need you to stop fixating on this.” Lucy folded her arms on the kitchen counter, leaning into them. “My Nana taught me how to make this when I was six,” she said. She was smiling at him, but it was a nice smile. The kind that made her face go round and soft, her eyes bright. “Six. It's not a hard recipe, Deej.”

DJ concentrated on making the top of the measuring cup perfectly level. It was harder than it should've been. “I'm not six.”

“Yes, but this is something that should get easier as you get older, not harder.” She watched him, a faint smile on her face, as he slid against the flat of the knife along the top of the cup. DJ shifted his grip and went for another pass, and Lucy reached out, her hand closing on top of his. He glanced up, and she gave him a reassuring smile. “Close enough, Deej.”

DJ scowled at her. “Precision is important.”

“Well, yeah, baking depends on precision, but flour's more forgiving than you'd expect.” She took the measuring cup away from him and dumped it into the bowl. “This isn't something super fancy, Deej. It's just a simple little cake.” She held the cup out to him. “Two more.”

He took it from her, resigned to his fate. “Maybe you could do it?”

“I could, but I won't,” Lucy said. “So let's-”

From the other end of the house, there was the sound of a door slamming, and then what sounded like someone running in their general direction. Lucy buried her face in her hands. “Oh, my God...” she managed, right before her father came sliding through the kitchen door, his hands held out in front of him.

DJ stared at him. Lucy's father stared back. Lucy just stood there, her face hidden in her hands. “Hi,” DJ said, because someone had to say something.

Lucy's father studied him, his eyes narrowed. “Somewhere, in this house-”

“Daddy,” Lucy said, her voice muffled by her fingers.

“There is toto,” her father finished, ignoring her completely.

DJ's fingers tangled in the fabric of his apron again. “No,” he said.

His face fell. He looked at Lucy. Lucy looked back. “What,” she said. 

“I was promised toto,” he said. “I left work early.”

“Don't know why, I didn't promise you anything,” she said, her hands on her hips. “In fact, I told you nothing, so-”

Her dad pressed a kiss to her head. “I have my ways, honey.”

“Your ways, right, sure.” She leaned back. “I told you not to tell him!” Lucy yelled out the kitchen door.

“It's so cute that you thought I would listen,” Lucy's mother called back, and Lucy stuck her tongue out in the general direction of the living room. “Watch it, miss.”

Lucy threw her hands in the air. “You are both horrible!”

“Yes, yes, we're very embarrassing, your life is nothing but suffering, how ever do you survive,” her father said, not even trying to keep a straight face. He peered into DJ's bowl. Then back up at DJ. “This is not cake.”

DJ studied the mess of ingredients. “No,” he agreed.

Lucy's father leaned an elbow on the edge of the counter. “Your mother called me an hour ago,” he said to Lucy. “This-” He waved at the bowl. “This should be cake by now.”

“Oh, are you disappointed?” She asked, her eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. “Really?”

He considered that. “Yes,” he said at last, so firmly that DJ could only nod in agreement.

“It should be cake,” he said to Lucy.

“And whose fault is it that it is not cake?” Lucy asked him, her eyes bright.

DJ thought about that. “Mine,” he said at last. It was sad. Or resigned. Or both.

Lucy flicked a tea towel at him. “Yeah! Yours!” But she was laughing when she said it, her eyes bright. DJ grabbed at the towel, and she jerked it out of reach.

“It has to be right,” DJ said. “It's-” He stopped, struggling to find the word. “Important.” To Mr. Piero, he said, “It's Steve Day.”

“Steve Day,” Mr. Piero repeated.

“Not today. Tomorrow. Is Steve Day,” DJ explained. “And we don't bake.” He paused. “My family. Cook. Yes. Bake. No.”

“Not so much,” Lucy agreed. 

“Steve. Day,” Mr. Piero said again.

“It's a day,” DJ said. “For Steve.”

“Thus the name,” Mr. Piero said. DJ was pretty sure he was amused. It was hard to tell with him, sometimes. “Right. Steve Day. And Lucy said she'd teach you to make toto?”

“There was whining involved,” Lucy said. She was rummaging in the cabinet. A moment later, she emerged with a box grater and a pleased grin. “Pleading.”

“There was,” DJ agreed. “Lots.”

“Sometimes, that's what you need to get things done.” Mr. Piero rolled up his sleeves and reached for the bowl. “Okay. Let's get this done.”

DJ's hands twitched, but he let the bowl go. “I can stir.”

“Sure you can.” Mr. Piero picked up the spoon. “But I'm going to. Because Steve Day is tomorrow, so we're working on a deadline here, Sparky.” He tossed Lucy a bag of coconut chunks. Lucy caught it with one hand. “I taught Lucy, I can teach you, too.”

“Nana taught me how to make this, because she said you couldn't be trusted,” Lucy pointed out, grating coconut with a practiced hand. “And we're still at the flour stage, Daddy.”

“That's what she wants you to believe.” Mr. Piero reached for the flour bin. As DJ watched, horrified, he scooped up two not quite full cups of flour and dumped them into the bowl. “Two or three?”

“Just two. We managed one,” Lucy said. “Stir it, he put the spices in first.”

“You're a risk taker,” Mr. Piero said to DJ.

“They were smaller,” DJ explained. Everyone stared at him. He shrugged, used to that. “Smaller amounts. Less important. Figured we could work up.”

“Most people don't work up to the main ingredient,” Mr. Piero said, his lips twitching. As DJ watched, he started to work the dry ingredients together, the bowl tipped against the broad width of his palm. With each pass of the spoon, a faint dusting of flour ended up coating the counter. DJ's fingers twitched, and Mr. Piero gave him a look. “Can you crack eggs without getting the shell in there?”

DJ thought about that. “Yes,” he said at last.

“Not sure if it's better that you thought about that, or worse that you had to think about that,” Mr. Piero said. “Grab two eggs from the fridge.”

“Wash the eggs before you crack them,” Lucy said. DJ blinked at her, his hand on the fridge door. She pointed at the sink. “Bacteria.”

“She gets that from her mother,” Mr. Piero said, his head still bent over the bowl. 

“I heard that,” Lucy's mom yelled from the living room.

“Aaaaaand her mother is completely right,” Mr. Piero said, and Lucy choked on a laugh. Her father flicked the spoon at her, leaving a bright white splash of flour across her shoulder. She stuck her tongue out at him, and he pointed at the grater. “Watch your fingers.”

“No, blood is a good addition. Extra iron. Makes you strong,” she said, really bearing down. But she spared DJ a glance. “Relax. It's okay. It's going to be fine.”

DJ nodded, rolling the egg carefully beneath the flow of water. It cascaded over his fingers, splashing in the basin of the sink in complicated, ever shifting patterns. He smoothed his fingers over the shell, slow and careful. There was something comforting about the way the water slid over the egg. “Baking's hard,” he said.

“A little hard,” Lucy agreed. “But some recipes are more...” Her nose wrinkled. “They're harder to mess up, Deej. If you're making croissants, you've got to be careful. Be precise. Meringue? That's a tough one, you can mess that up with the eggs or even if it's too humid. But this?” She tapped the grater against the cutting board, coconut flakes floating to the cutting board like snow. “It might be a little denser or a little lumpier or a little browner from time to time, but mostly, it's going to be okay.” She smiled at him. “It'll still taste good.”

DJ didn't smile back. “It's yours.” He looked at her. “Your recipe. Your family. I want to get it right.”

Lucy's smile went soft at the edges, less bright but more kind. “Deej. It'll be right. But it'll be your right. Not mine.” 

“Only one right,” DJ said. Mr. Piero held out the bowl, and DJ cracked the eggs, one after another with a careful, practiced hand, the way Clint had taught him.

“You'd think so,” he said, checking the eggs for shell before he started stirring. “But that's not how this works.” For a moment, he just added ingredients, measuring milk and melted butter and drizzling them into the bowl. Lucy, without being asked, pushed the grated coconut towards him, and went to get a cake pan from the cabinet. She dropped it on the counter, a can of Crisco in her other hand, and settled down on a stool next to DJ.

“My mama came from Jamaica, she came alone, and when she landed in the United States, she wasn't much older than Lucy is now.” Mr. Piero tapped the spoon on the side of the bowl. He stared at the mixture with a slight frown, and reached for the jar of ginger. “She had family waiting here, but not her mother, not her sisters, not the people she knew best. She left her friends behind, she left her whole world behind, and she came here.” He waved an idle hand through the air. “Landed in New York. In November.”

“She thought that was as cold as the world could get,” Lucy said. She worked the paper towel back and forth on the bottom of the pan, the movements smooth and practiced. “'Winter' was kind of a foreign concept.”

“She came here, and everything was different,” Mr. Piero said. “The weather, the way people spoke, the culture, the food.” He swept the spoon through the batter. “She was lonely, and homesick, and she couldn't change the weather, or make New York any less foreign. But she could cook, she had the recipes her mother had taught her, that her aunts and her grandmother had taught her.”

He glanced at DJ. “Food as heritage. Food as an anchor, tying you to where you came from, to the people you never knew. Food as memory.” He reached for the coconut. “But you can make the same recipe, the way you've always made it, and it's never going to be the same. The eggs are different, the butter and the flour, all of it is different, it wasn't what she had back in Jamaica. And this-” He held up a few shreds of coconut, rubbing them between his fingers and thumb. “Would never be as fresh again.”

Mr. Piero dumped the coconut into the bowl. “The toto she'd made, her whole life, that was a memory. This toto, the one she made here, the one she makes now, it's not the same.”

DJ leaned forward, staring into the bowl. It smelled good, the scent almost heavy, sweet and spicy. “Because of the ingredients.”

“Because she wasn't the same. The place was different, the ingredients were different, the oven was different, but mostly, she was different.” He smiled at DJ. “It's always going to be different,” he said. “Mama said, my toto isn't your toto. My rice isn't your rice. Your bread isn't my bread. You can read a recipe, you can learn a recipe, you can stand at the knee of a cook and watch and learn from when you're a baby. But a bit of the cook goes in the cooking.”

Lucy pushed the pan over to him, and he poured the batter into it with a practiced hand. “So Lucy can teach you, I can teach you, anyone can teach you.” He smiled, rotating the bowl between his hands to coax the last of the batter from it. “But your toto is going to be different. You can honor the heritage, you can honor the teacher, but-” Lucy picked up the pan and dropped it, tapping the batter down. “Something's always going to be different. Maybe the spices. Maybe the time you spend stirring. Maybe the flour you like is different from the one I like.”

“Maybe I measure properly,” DJ said.

“Maybe you get no cake,” Mr. Piero told him, and DJ struggled not to smile. “But yes. Mama measures by eye, with pinches and flicks of fingers and soup spoons.”

“She disapproves of my use of measuring spoons,” Lucy said her chin propped on her folded arms. Her eyes rolled up towards the ceiling. “SOOOOO much disapproval.”

“I approve of measuring spoons,” DJ told her, making her grin.

“Yes, you two are peas in a pod,” Mr. Piero said. He scraped the last of the batter out of the bowl and set it aside. “But your toto isn't going to be Lucy's toto, Deej. It's not going to happen. If you want hers, then you'll just have to convince her to make it for you.” 

DJ turned hopeful eyes on Lucy. She arched an eyebrow, her lips pursing as she pretending to think about that. “No.”

He sighed. “Worth a try,” he said, and Lucy giggled into her arms.

“Okay. Sometimes. I'll make it for you sometimes,” she allowed. She reached out, swiping a bit of batter from the edge of the bowl. She stuck her finger in her mouth, grinning around her fingertip. “If you make me mac and cheese.”

“I can do that,” he said, smiling back. There was flour on her knuckles, and dusting her cheeks like a brilliant constellation of stars against her dark skin. He looked at Mr. Piero, who was wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Is this your toto, or mine?”

Mr. Piero hummed a bit under his breath. “I think maybe it's ours,” he said. He leaned an elbow on the counter. “Definitely not mine. Mine has rum.”

“I heard that!” Lucy's mom called from the living room.

Mr. Piero grinned. “She likes mine the best,” he whispered. 

Mrs. Piero appeared in the kitchen door, her e-reader propped on one hip, her hand braced on the doorframe. “What lies are you telling in here?”

“None at all, dear,” he said, his lips twitching.

She stared at him, her eyes narrowed. “Right,” she said at last. “Who's doing the dishes?”

Lucy raised her hand. “I nominate Lily.”

“You can't nominate your sister, she's not even here,” Mr. Piero told her.

“Does she want cake? Than she can wash the dishes,” Lucy said, unconcerned.

“I thought this was for Steve Day,” Lucy's mother said. “Do we get cake?”

Lucy looked at DJ. DJ smiled at her. “This one's ours,” he said.

She nodded, and reached for the coconut. “Ready to make yours?”

He took a deep breath. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There used to be a local Jamaican restaurant near me that served two different coconut cakes. One was a multilayered cake, light and fluffy and covered with heavy frosting and covered with coconut flakes. The other was a dense, heavy flat slabs of dark cake that reminds me of the gingerbread my mom used to make. I loved them both, but it was the small squares of toto wrapped in wax paper that I tended to gravitate towards.
> 
> It's closed now, but this recipe comes close to the cake I remember having there:
> 
> https://cooklikeajamaican.com/toto-coconut-cake/


End file.
